


Honey Don't Feed It (It Will Come Back)

by Silfrvarg



Series: Proof That I'm Breathing [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Emetophobia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, canon typical suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:34:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22161136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silfrvarg/pseuds/Silfrvarg
Summary: It starts, innocently enough, with a cupcake.ORWhat if Jon is more reliant on statements than mere withdrawal would suggest?
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Series: Proof That I'm Breathing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595161
Comments: 24
Kudos: 450
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Honey Don't Feed It (It Will Come Back)

**Author's Note:**

> *Shows up to The Magnus Archives fandom years late with starbucks*  
> This is written for the Starvation square on my bad things happen bingo card.  
> Warnings for: Jon making bad decisions, vomiting (probably too much vomiting), Jon level suicidal thoughts and actions.

It starts, innocently enough, with a cupcake.

Jon usually doesn’t have much of an appetite for sweet things, or indeed much of an appetite at all lately. Still, Melanie brought in cupcakes to share this morning - _Georgie had baked them, laughing in her kitchen and smearing a dollop of frosting on Melanie’s nose when she had tried to sneak a spoonful, her eyes turning soft and fond and-_ No. That isn’t _his_.

The point is there are cupcakes, freshly baked by Georgie who makes _really good_ cupcakes. It’s been a hard week, what with interventions and an encounter with The Web and everyone watching him to make sure he didn’t ‘eat someone’s brain’, not to mention Basira’s ultimatum. He’s tired (when is he not?) and strained and starting to feel that bone deep hollow restlessness that comes with the urge to find a fresher statement to feed on.

So he grabs the cupcake, hoping it will give him a bit of a boost, maybe take his mind off the hunger even though he Knows it won’t satisfy it. It’s as delicious as he remembers, moist and full of flavour without being overly sweet, and he eats the whole thing with his mug of tea and feels something almost like a smile on his face as he’s hit by a wave of fond nostalgia. He dares to hope maybe today will be a good day.

Half an hour later and he barely makes it to the bathroom before falling heavily to his knees and violently vomiting tea and cupcakes. With everything he’s experienced, all the different kinds of pain he’s felt, you’d think a small, mundane misery like this would be easy to deal with, but the spasming pain in his muscles and the burn of acid in his throat is just as awful as it’s always been. The force of it leaves him holding onto the bowl for support, pressing his forehead into the cool tiles as he struggles to fight down the waves of nausea. It passes, eventually, after several agonising minutes of dry heaving after he’d run out of anything to vomit. He allows himself a few moments more to rest, too relieved that the vomiting is over to care that he’s practically hugging the toilet.

Finally he climbs back to his feet and staggers over to the sink, turning on the tap to rinse out his mouth and staring at his reflection with a wry grimace. There are tracks on his face from tears of pain an exertion, and once that might have embarrassed him, but it’s not like there’s anyone here to see them. Besides, he’s been in far worse states than this, a few tears are hardly anything to be ashamed of.

Still, he leaves the tap running, wetting his hands and scrubbing them against his face, washing away the salt from where the tears had dried. There’s no helping the redness in his eyes, but honestly, with the size of the bags under them anyone who notices would just blame the exhaustion. They wouldn’t entirely be wrong either, he’s self aware enough to know he’s a wreck. Oh, he keeps himself clean, tries to look somewhat put together, but any real pride in his appearance had started to slip the first time he looked into a mirror and saw the scars from the worms, making him look like- how had Elias put it? Swiss cheese. As an afterthought though he runs his fingers through his hair until it’s something approximating tidy and professional, if more than a little too long for his tastes. He tries not to notice the extra strands of grey.

He still looks like hell, but the regular kind of hell that everyone at the institute has come to expect from him, so he sets his shoulders and heads back to the office. The only one who’s noticed his absence is Basira, looking at him with guarded suspicion, like the time he’d been kneeling in the bathroom had been long enough to go out and hunt down a statement, and who knows? Maybe it had. He shoots her an irritated look, though it lacks any real heat to it. He doesn’t like the way she looks at him now, like she’s expecting him to go feral, start ‘feeding’ on anyone within reach, but, well, he can’t say he blames her exactly. He’s already demonstrated that he can’t be trusted to contain his appetite, and, as much as it stings, the suspicion is a good reminder.

No one else seems to have had a problem with the cupcakes, and Daisy is polishing off her second one, clearly not smelling anything off about them. He tells himself that maybe the cupcake was a little too rich after days ( _longer_ ) without eating. He firmly ignores the whispered suspicion in the back corner of his mind that it’s not that simple, that he’s not that _lucky_.

* * *

Jon stares down the cup of two-minute noodles with a look of grave determination. He’d allowed himself a full day of steadfastly ignoring the _potential_ issue, but he knew it was pointless to delay any longer. Best case there wasn’t a problem and he stopped worrying about it and was able to focus on worrying about _literally everything else_ , and worst case? Well, at least he’d Know.

Steeling himself, he takes a mouthful. It’s not exactly _good_ , the noodles are bland and the broth claims to be beef flavoured but misses the mark entirely, so all he’s left tasting is an excessive amount of salt. In short, it tastes exactly like two minute noodles, kind of terrible but warm and somewhat filling and technically counting as food, and by the time he finishes the cup of noodles he finds he was almost enjoying it.

Shortly afterwards it makes a reappearance and he finds himself enjoying that a lot less. He supposes the only good thing to be said about it is that it’s as easy to expel as it was to eat, and so the retching is a little less awful than it had been yesterday. Well, it’s still horrible, but a little less horrible, and he’ll take his small reprieves where he can get them.

The dry toast the next day is a struggle to eat but it almost seems like it will stay down, and he makes it a full hour before having to rush to the bathroom, the horrible wrenching feeling of his body rejecting everything he tries to eat is almost becoming familiar by now, and by the time it’s over the muscles in his chest and abdomen are burning with fatigue and his whole body is shaking. It takes him longer than it should to pick himself off the floor this time, longer to make himself look like he hadn’t just spent the afternoon hunched miserably over the toilet heaving out a few measly pieces of toast, and he doesn’t bother trying to hide his exhaustion as he drags himself back into his office and collapses into his chair.

Somehow the next day he muster enough courage to try again, but he knows that either way this will be the last attempt. The small tub of yogurt sits on his desk for longer than he cares to admit before he finally tells himself to stop delaying. He’s not even surprised that after only a few minutes he’s back in the bathroom.

Unfortunately it seems like he’s not going to get away with keeping his misery to himself this time as a loud, insistent knocking comes from the door.

“Are you in their Jon?” Daisy asks, and something about her voice tells him that not answering would just result in the bathroom needing a new door.

“Yes,” he grates out hoarsely, “I’m a little _busy_ right now-”

“You decent?”

“ _Yes._ Why-”

The door opens to Daisy holding a key and looking unapologetic, and he’s about to complain, just because he’s got his pants on doesn’t mean she can just barge in, but before he can get a word out he’s heaving again.

He must lose a few moments like that, because before he knows she’s moved at all Daisy is by his side, holding his hair back for him, which is nice of her. Finally it stops, and he slumps down on the floor with his back against the wall, turning to Daisy with tired eyes.

“Why are you here?” He asks roughly, throat burning.

“Checking up on you. I take it this is what you’ve been running off to do for the last few days?”

“ _Obviously_. Why, did everyone just assume I was out-”

“Hunting? Yeah, pretty much.” Daisy cuts him off bluntly.

“Well,” Jon grumbles half heartedly, “As you can see I’m plainly _not_ hunting right now, so-”

“Yeah, about that,” Daisy cuts him off again, “Do you want to tell me _why_ you’ve spent the last few days locking yourself in the bathroom to vomit?”

“Not particularly, no.” Jon says, and he can’t quite keep the exhaustion from his voice.

Daisy sighs and sits down next to him, “Too bad. Tell me anyway.”

Daisy’s voice is firm with just a hint of a growl, and Jon could refuse, could tell her to sod off, but he knows she won’t give up on finding out the truth and trying to hide it from her just seems pointless. And _exhausting_.

“I just- I haven’t been able to keep food down for the last few days, ok? Every time I try, well, this happens.”

“Oh. That’s- Have you tried-”

“Yesterday.”

“What about-”

“Just now.”

“Oh, _that’s_ what that was. You sick then?”

“No, no I don’t think so. Apart from the vomiting I feel- well, I wouldn’t say I feel _good_ exactly, but no worse than normal.”

“Then what?”

“I think… I already knew I didn’t really _need_ to eat anymore. The statements were enough, well, the _fresh_ ones were anyway. But now… now I don’t think I _can_ eat anymore.” He admits.

Daisy is silent, looking at him steadily, like she’s trying to puzzle something out.

“Did- did anything like this ever happen to _you_? If you don’t mind me asking?” He breaks the silence.

“No.”

They’re both silent at that. He’s… part of him is _relieved_ that Daisy never had to deal with something like this, that even when she was in The Hunt’s grip she was still- well, not quite human, but close to it. Closer than he is, at any rate.

The other part of him is just-

Daisy is the first one to voice it, the fear that’s been in the back of his mind for the last four days.

“What happens when the written statements aren’t enough anymore?” She asks softly, “We’ve been comparing it to withdrawal, and that’s how it is for me. Mostly. But if you can’t eat, if the only way you can ‘feed’ is to _take_ statements… Jon, that’s not withdrawal anymore, that’s-”

“Starvation,” He finishes, voice hollow “I know.”

They sit like that for a while, shoulders touching.

“What are you going to do about it?” Daisy asks at last.

He’s silent for a long while, and when he answers is quiet, barely there, “Nothing.”

“That’s not okay Jon. Starving yourself is _not_ okay. You know that, right?” Daisy asks, voice fierce and urgent and _protective_ , and it makes something in his chest _hurt_.

“I thought I could stop, if I needed to,” He admits instead of answering, “That’s how I justified it to myself, you know? Just one more and I’ll be strong enough, just get through the next ritual, heh, the next apocalypse, and then I can stop.”

He laughs, or maybe it’s not a laugh, it’s hard to tell anymore. Either way there are tears in his eyes, and when he finds his voice again it’s trembling.

“All this time I thought it was this big, complex question of morality, but it’s not. It’s- it’s really very simple, in the end-” He can’t get the words out, his voice is tight with- _something_. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s _grief_.

He closes his eyes, allows himself a moment, just one.

“Can I live with it? Can I keep taking statements, taking all that fear and _pain_ and feeding it to the beholding, not just until I can ‘quit’, but for the _rest of my life_?” He asks the question.

He finally lets himself look Daisy in the eye, sees his answer reflected.

“You can’t.” She answers for him quietly.

He shakes his head tiredly, “No, I can’t.”

There’s nothing more to be said after that, no words to make things okay, and it seems- it seems wrong to try. So they don’t. Instead, Daisy presses closer to him and rests her head on his shoulder. He leans down, resting his head against hers, and it doesn’t change anything, it doesn’t make this ok, but at least- at least he’s not alone.

As his throat closes and his shoulders shake and great wrenching sobs start to break him apart, at least he’s not alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from It Will Come Back by Hozier.  
> Come follow me at silfrvarg.tumblr.com for more bad times.


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